


Happy Birthday, Sherlock

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John might have told Sherlock he'd had enough, but he had time to think, he's back now, and he's ready to apologise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> So... I thought I'd write a sweet, silly birthday fic for Sherlock Holmes. That... didn't quite work out. I guess I had these angsty feelings that needed an outlet. But then the characters took matters into their own hands and fixed it. I think.;)

John stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, and strained his ears for any signs of life in the upstairs flat. He half hoped that Sherlock wasn’t home, that he could stew in his misplaced anger for another day. It would be so much easier.

But it wouldn’t be better.

The last four months had been difficult for John. Losing a wife and a daughter was traumatic enough, and not speaking to Sherlock made him even more miserable. He’d thought it was the right decision at the time, that he’d had enough of Sherlock’s lies and deceit. But maybe he’d been too quick to judge.

He was considering a strategic retreat when the door to the flat opened.

“John?” Sherlock croaked cautiously, sounding as if he hadn’t used his voice in a while.

John looked up at him and winced. Even in the dim staircase light, Sherlock looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones were sharper than John had ever seen them — even more than when they’d first met. His hair was a mess that could only be improved with a drastic haircut.

“Can I—” John cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said at once. “Yes, of course.”

He opened the door wider in invitation and waited for John to climb the stairs. He looked down at his bare feet with the most vulnerable expression John had ever seen on his face. It made John’s gut clench uncomfortably with something resembling guilt and he smiled awkwardly at Sherlock when he passed him on the doorstep.

The flat was another disaster. There were papers strewn everywhere, odd objects left in even stranger places than before and plates with untouched food piling on the coffee table and by Sherlock’s laptop on the desk.

At least there was only one mug and it was empty.

“I... uh... I can clean this up,” Sherlock said nervously and started straightening things. He only succeeded in disrupting the already precarious balance of a pile of newspapers and they all tumbled down on him. “Sorry. Sorry, just... give me a moment. I can do this.”

“Right,” John said through clenched teeth. The dressing gown slid down Sherlock’s shoulders and revealed ill-fitting clothes and bony elbows. Sherlock paused in reorganizing the papers and adjusted his loose trousers. “Right. Tea, I think.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning so quickly John was surprised he didn’t fall. “I can make tea.”

Before John could protest, Sherlock abandoned the newspapers and all but ran into the kitchen. John could hear dishes clattering about and took a deep breath before following.

“Sherlock—” he started and then he took in the state of the kitchen.

The table was even more cluttered than before, but instead of chemistry equipment or weird experiments there were more papers piled everywhere. Sherlock’s microscope was nowhere in sight, and even the side table had a couple dozen notebooks thrown at it. The kitchen counters were mostly free of any paper trails, but they were cluttered with clothes, of all things.

John clenched his hand into a fist and then let it relax back. It was not what he’d been expecting.

Sherlock fumbled with the kettle, rinsing it a couple of times. He forgot to actually pour any water in it but as he also didn’t switch it on, John let him rummage the cupboards in search of clean mugs.

“Yours is in the living room,” John told him, startling Sherlock.

He nearly dropped the mug he did manage to find, but then put it safely on the counter and went to search for his own. John huffed and took care of the kettle. When Sherlock came back with his mug, John took it from him and washed it meticulously before putting a tea bag in it. They waited for the kettle to boil in awkward silence, without so much as looking at each other.

John took a deep breath, hoping to say the right thing for once.

“Sherlock—”

“I’ll go and clean the coffee table,” Sherlock interrupted him at once and turned to march out of the kitchen. He stopped after a couple of steps and glanced at John nervously. “Or do you want to sit in the armchairs? Because I don’t mind, really, we can—”

“It’s... it’s fine,” John told him and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock observed him for a moment, which really shouldn’t feel so disconcerting after so many years. Thankfully, the kettle boiled and John occupied himself with making tea. When he stepped out of the kitchen into the living room, Sherlock was hastily throwing papers off his dark leather chair. John’s chair looked suspiciously untouched, but John decided not to dwell on it too much. He’d already seen enough.

John put the mugs on the small side table and waited for Sherlock to clean his chair. Sitting down while Sherlock was still throwing papers around wouldn’t have felt awkward in the past, but they came a long way since then. Instead, John wandered towards the wall behind the sofa, where Sherlock had hung an impressive collection of notes, photos and newspaper clippings. John was surprised to find his own photo in the centre of the elaborate web.

“Oh,” he heard a soft sigh behind him while he was trying to make sense of the connections Sherlock’s mind had made. “That’s... sorry, I’ll take it down. I shouldn’t—”

“You should explain,” John said and turned to face Sherlock. He looked sheepish, glancing from John to the wall and back, as if he thought John would storm out of the flat in any second. To be fair to him, that’s what John had done the last time they’d seen each other. “Though actually, I...” John started but didn’t quite know how to finish this sentence. He knew what he had to say, but it didn’t mean he knew _how_. “Let’s just... let’s just drink our tea, yeah?”

“Alright,” Sherlock said cautiously and grabbed his mug before settling in his chair.

John sighed and sat down, too. He didn’t reach for his tea.

“Look,” he said after a while and looked up. Sherlock looked back at him with an unhealthy gleam in his eyes that made John clench his fist again. “This isn’t...” he started again but couldn’t find the right words and huffed with self-deprecation. “I’m really not good at this stuff.”

“You’re better than I am,” Sherlock said softly.

John let out a bitter little laugh.

“I really don’t think so, Sherlock,” he said with a crooked smile. “I came here to apologise and I can’t even get my shit together for long enough to say ‘I’m sorry’. Which I am. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. For walking away as I did."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a long time, barely moving. John decided to give him some time to process and he reached for his tea. He managed to drink most of it, the warm liquid calming his nerves a little, before Sherlock inhaled loudly and focused on John’s face.

“But... why?” he asked, not comprehending. “It was all my fault. You were right to walk away from me and I don’t...” He swallowed. “I don’t expect you to change your mind.”

John gritted his teeth, guilt simmering low in his gut.

“Well, you should,” he said. “Because it wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was!” Sherlock exclaimed. He left his armchair and started pacing. “If I had been quicker, if I had figured it out sooner, your daughter might still be alive!”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He told himself the same thing over and over for weeks and months, trying to put the blame where it didn’t belong. He’d been furious with Sherlock for not figuring it out sooner. After all, he was supposed to be the cleverest detective in the world. But John had also been hurt, both by the pointless death that seemed to follow him everywhere he went, and by the things people insisted on keeping from him.

He forgot just how human Sherlock was and only now, seeing real anguish in his friend’s eyes, John realised how badly Sherlock was hurting as well.

“Maybe,” John conceded because he couldn’t outright deny it. “But you don’t know that. And I shouldn’t expect you to always get it right.”

“Then what’s the point?!” Sherlock yelled. He stopped pacing and glared at some spot on the rug, but then his whole body sagged and he just looked defeated. “I’m supposed to know these things, to be cleverer than other people. But look at me, John. I can’t _think_!” He closed his eyes and just stood there, in the middle of the room, breathing. He pointed at the wall and then at all the papers around. “I spent months trying to determine what I had missed, trying to keep you safe, but I can’t figure it out. Everything I can think about ends with a disaster anyway.” He clenched his jaw. “Being clever is the only thing I have that’s useful,” he said quietly. “I’m worthless without it.”

“No, you’re not,” John protested. He abandoned his chair and came closer to his friend. Sherlock watched him warily.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Sherlock said. “I know you love the game and you might even enjoy watching me solve the puzzle but... if I can’t... even if I wasn’t responsible for your daughter’s death... if I can’t deduce anymore and if I can’t provide regular cases, why would you even stay?”

John just stared at him, stunned, hoping Sherlock was just messing with him. But he seemed completely serious and he wasn't _that_ good of an actor. Sherlock could feign human emotions just fine, sometimes fooling even John, but never anything this raw and real.

So John could only stand there, finally seeing all the hurt and resignation flashing through Sherlock's face and berating himself for not noticing before. Had Sherlock really been feeling like this all the time they knew each other, perhaps even longer? John thought that Sherlock, with all his arrogance and condescension, knew his worth well, but it seemed he might be wrong. Yes, Sherlock knew he was clever, but he hadn’t even realised he was John’s best friend until John told him that(and then used every opportunity he had to point out his status; yes, John did notice some things).

Did Sherlock really think that the people closest to him only tolerated him because he was useful and would abandon him as soon as he stopped being so?

"Christ, Sherlock," John breathed and covered his face with his hand.

"It's very noble of you to try and forgive me but I assure you it's not necessary," Sherlock told his feet, completely oblivious to John's internal struggle. "You have nothing to apologise for and I wouldn't want you to continue being my friend out of some moral obligation—"

"Moral obligation?" John repeated with disbelief.

"— and I know you won't be able to trust me anymore, not this time, and so even if you decide to stay now and try to fix things, you'll always know that your family is dead because of me. And when I inevitably fail to deliver the danger you crave because I'll no longer be able to solve crimes, it will be too much for you and you'll leave. So, really, John, I'm only saving us both some great disappointment—"

"You're an idiot!" John interrupted him. Sherlock closed his mouth with a loud click of his teeth. They were both monumentally stupid. "I'm not leaving."

Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes met John's. He frowned.

“You may think so now but surely when I—”

“No, Sherlock, listen to me,” John said, shaking his head. “I know I haven’t really given you any reason to believe me now, but... I needed that time to come to terms with everything. And I’m not going to leave.”

Sherlock blinked at him, still unconvinced.

“What if I can’t solve crimes anymore?” he asked.

“I don’t care. I don’t care if you can’t deduce anymore, or if you go blind or... or turn into a giant cat or something. I’m not leaving.”

Sherlock stared at him, still with a suspicious little frown. He turned the whole power of his searching gaze on John, but John knew how to hold his ground. He crossed his arms and waited until Sherlock would finally realise that he was serious. Until they could put this behind them and move on, hopefully towards better things.

“Why?” Sherlock asked finally, his voice small and confused.

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” John said and huffed. Then he looked Sherlock in the eye and said, “Because I love you.” Sherlock blinked quickly several times and then John could see him rationalise this statement into something it wasn't. “No,” John quickly interrupted, before Sherlock even managed to open his mouth. “I’m _in_ love with you.” Sherlock inhaled sharply. “And I don’t care if you can’t work cases anymore. That’s just a part of you and I want—”

The rest of what he was going to say got swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth crashing with John’s lips. John nearly overbalanced but recovered quickly, adjusted the angle and kissed back with all he had. Sherlock made a desperate noise deep in his throat and then his hands came up to cup John’s face. John shivered at the intimacy of the gesture and lifted his own hands to Sherlock’s neck, taking the opportunity to play with Sherlock’s ridiculous overgrown curls.

They only stopped kissing when they needed to breathe and that was a compelling argument for breathing being boring.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock murmured, his forehead pressed against John’s.

A funny feeling started to build up in John's chest and he burst into giggles. Sherlock leaned back to look at him with a frown, even though his hands were still clenched around John's arms.

"Sorry," John breathed. "That wasn't funny. It was lovely, in fact. I shouldn't have laughed."

Sherlock smiled at him and it seemed to lighten up his tired face.

"I suppose it's better than giggling at a crime scene," he said, which sent John into a new fit of laughter.

Sherlock soon joined him with his deep chuckle and with every second, John felt the weight he'd carried around for the last few months slowly lift.

"No, but... seriously," he said with a grin plastered to his face. "We're ridiculous. I came here thinking that maybe, if I'm lucky, you will let me stay — and I was ready to beg, don't think I wasn't. And now, look at us!" He frowned. "I can stay, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock said as if the mere idea that John might not be welcome offended him. John's heart soared. "It's your home."

John groaned and leaned in to kiss Sherlock again. After all those years of denial, now that he could actually do what he wanted, John couldn't get close enough. They were entangled in a tight embrace with barely any space between them but it still didn’t feel like enough.

Then John heard the bells chime midnight and let go of Sherlock to look at him with a smile.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," he said.

“Yes, yes” Sherlock replied with an impatient wave of his hand. "Never mind that," he added and swallowed John’s giggles in a kiss.


End file.
